


don't call me home

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, maedhros has not had a great time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4437716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fingon comes to rescue Maedhros, Maedhros believes himself incapable of being rescued. Fingon tries to convince him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't call me home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> So I've written a Maedhros who cracks and winds up working for Morgoth before (unknown) so when I saw a request that included Fingon/Maedhros and canon divergence, my mind went to that. This doesn't happen in the same timeline as 'unknown', though - it just sprang from a similar seed. I hope you like it, havisham!

Fingon passed among the cliffs of Angband like a blue flame dancing among the black-and-red coals of a dying fire, his harp on his back and his coat sometimes slung over his arm - for at turns the mountains were so cold as to make his teeth chatter and his mind fly to the Grinding Ice, and other times so hot, with streams of bright lava turning their red bellies up to the fogged sky, that he sweated through his shirt and the chips of ice that had caught on the edges of his braids faded and steamed into nothing.

The whole thing was so surreal it seemed dreamlike. His mood upheld that - his desperation and fury did not fade as he traveled, but held steady after hours, as if the crowding mountains encouraged and nourished it. Until he came upon the last cliff, he felt tireless.

The last cliff was the last, to him, not in that it marked the end of the mountains - they still loomed all around, like giants putting their heads together to laugh at his situation - but in that his search ended there. A figure sat, hunched, at the lip of a cliff, their legs dangling into nothing, like a child on a grassy outcropping. They seemed not to care for the smoke hanging over the air or the black, unknown depths of the space they stared into, and for a moment Fingon thought they were some sort of orc. Their hair was chopped off rough and short, their clothing a mixture of drab and barbarically brilliant, and the hand he could see resting on the rock was twisted, almost a claw, with something like a metal glove covering half of it as if in support. He hesitated, not sure whether to approach.

Then the figure moved, tilting their head to the side and back, and a tired grey eye peered at him. Fingon went cold. For he saw, now, that the rough-cut hair was rich red; the figure taller than any orc he'd encountered; and the eye that looked at him with such bleak indifference was unmistakable. He raised his hands, although he did not know whether he wanted to reach out to embrace the figure, or whether he was ready to fight.

"Maitimo?"

There was no response for a long minute. Maedhros - for there was nobody else the figure could be, even Morgoth's servants that had the power of illusion could not mimic his eyes, the form that Fingon knew all too well - turned to face the dark cliff again. Fingon had taken a step forward, intending to repeat himself, when Maedhros spoke.

"Some time ago -" He paused, thinking. His voice was slow and labored, as if from disuse. "Perhaps a month. Perhaps three. You would have found me there," he pointed, with his mangled hand, to the cliffside he faced, "and you would have come soon enough." He thought about it."Soon enough to kill me, at least."

Fingon did not know what to say. He looked around, wondering if he had walked into an ambush.

"Oh, we are quite alone." Maedhros said. He got up, slowly, from the cliff edge; he was as tall as ever, but his shoulders were slightly crooked and his back curved. "I came out here when I heard whispers of an elf sighted in the mountains. Nobody else will come; anyone who comes into this place is expected to die, shortly, for the very earth carries the ill-will of its master." He turned to face Fingon. "But I guessed that if it was who I thought, you would not perish so easily. I wished, therefore, to warn you away from going further."

Fingon dropped his coat on a nearby rock. The air of this place was not blistering, but pleasantly warm, and even that seemed bothersome after the extreme heat he'd come through. "And why should I go any further, now that I've found you?"

Maedhros closed his eyes, as if against a blow. "I cannot go with you, Findekáno. I am..." He looked down at his claw-like hand, opened and closed it as if it held the memory he was looking for. "I am lost. It is better to think of me as dead."

Fingon could not speak, for a moment. His fury wanted a vent, and for a moment he wanted to demand explanations; to reproach Maedhros for being so beholden to his father's cause as to go with him and burn the way behind, but not so loyal as to die, or remain imprisoned, rather than to give in to Morgoth. He pressed his lips together tightly, instead, and went to sit on a nearby rock.

Maedhros watched him warily. He looked, indeed, half like an orc-captain; not just in the worn lines of his face and the dulling of his hair, but the bright nervousness in his eyes following Fingon's every motion. Fingon noted the jewels that contrasted with the dull shades of his clothes, the insignia of the Eye worked into them, and felt ill. It was enough to know that Morgoth's will had touched Maedhros; seeing the jewelry was further insult, the visible mark of Sauron's hands upon him.

"You do not ask me to kill you?" Fingon asked brusquely.

Maedhros gave a painful laugh. "I no longer wish to die. That was scorched out of me." He pressed a hand against his breast. "The Enemy thinks I should be more useful alive."

He was avoiding Fingon's eyes; there was something he was concealing. Fingon sat in thought for a moment before asking another question.

"And how did you come here without Morgoth's knowledge?"

Maedhros did not meet his eyes. "He trusts in the strength of his defenses."

"And the force of his will?"

Maedhros nodded.

"Then how come you here, defying it, if you are so lost?"

Maedhros said nothing, only looked at the ground. Fingon watched him for a minute, trying to understand him. They had known each other well; but even a lover can seem like a stranger, after years and the pain they bring keep them away from you. After a moment's thought, he took his harp off his back.

The song he played was one they both knew by heart, one that Aredhel often demanded when Maedhros was not around to request it. Warm and soft but one that grew stronger every moment, a song about light out of darkness and love out of nothing. Maedhros drew in a sharp breath as if in pain, then stood there frozen. Fingon played through once without raising his voice, simply letting his shaking fingers recall the notes and his pain-fogged mind clear; then he raised his voice, softly, in the first verse, closing his eyes. The last thing he glimpsed were tears in Meadhros's eyes.

Fingon ran out of breath at the second verse; he had been intending to stop soon despite that, but the mountains had stolen more of his voice than he'd expected. He felt hope bloom in his chest, despite everything, when the rippling notes were joined by a voice. Nothing more than a murmur, but Maedhros sang, his voice hoarse and soft, along with the tune they both knew. At the fifth and final verse, their voices mingled, and Fingon felt the empty space beside him occupied by a gaunt but familiar form.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, their shoulders touching.

"Why did you come?" Maehros asked, his voice trembling.

Fingon opened his eyes. "Our families still stand to battle. Maglor does his best, but he and my father cannot meet on terms; your other brothers do not follow his lead so readily. I came to this land partly to see you. Your absence is keenly felt by all. I love you." He hesitated. "The last I felt was a foolish reason, so I intended not to bring it up. But it truly colors everything, for I do not know if I would still be here, for the other reasons."

"I am no longer what you loved."

"I don't think I believe that."

"I haven't been for a long time." Maedhros linked his hands together and rocked forward, his teeth set in anguish. "I could not withstand the torments here. I cannot even remember some things. I do not know if -" He shut his mouth and shook his head.

"If he has changed you?" Fingon guessed, comprehension beginning to dawn. "Placed some direction in your mind that you cannot detect?"

"You know the Valar are capable of it," Maedhros whispered, misery in his voice. "Please, Finno. Tell them I'm dead."

The nickname sunk into him like a knife, but had a different result than, perhaps, the one Maedhros hoped for. He set his harp carefully by the side of the rock, then turned and touched Maedhros's lips with his fingertips.

"There might be a way to tell," he said. "I used to know you better, almost, than you knew yourself. Remember?"

Maedhros caught his breath. "Those days are long past." But although he reached up to take Fingon's hand, he only held it; did not move it away.

"I would be willing, if you are."

"How could you be willing? I..." Maedhros shrugged bitterly. "Look at me."

"I have. Do you think beauty really matters to me, here and now? I came for you. You know why. I didn't come for your hair, your eyes, the smoothness of your skin. I came for you." Fingon caught at his hand as it dropped and kissed it. "I am willing."

For a moment only he waited, with the strangness against his lips of rough skin melded into warm, smooth metal. Then Maedhros closed his eyes and nodded, his face strained.

"I as well. May I be cursed for it," he added under his breath. Fingon lowered his hand and kissed the words away from his lips.

It was a savage pleasure, to strip the jewelry of Sauron's fashioning away from Maedhros's throat and wrists; to kiss his pulse there and here, feel it quicken under his touch. A gentler one, to feel Maedhros's damaged fingers lace into his braids, hear him breath Fingon's name over and over as if trying to confirm his existence. The ground only boasted meager grass, but luckily few jagged rocks, and Fingon threw his coat on the ground to provide a bed, of sorts, for their coupling. Maedhros sank onto it, half-bare already, with his eyes fixed with fierce brightness on Fingon.

"I can hardly believe that you're real," he said softly. "Come here."

Gladly, Fingon obeyed. He had expected Maedhros to be more timid, reluctant to touch another so intimately after the pain he had undergone, but Maedhros returned his kisses even more fiercely than they were given, and when Fingon reached down he found his cock full and heavy already to the touch. Still, Fingon tried to be kind to him; break away from kisses every now and then to murmur reassurance, kiss the palm of his injured hand, remind him of who he was.

And when he took Maedhros in hand and pressed their foreheads together, closed his eyes and felt Maedhros's mind finally open and bloom into his like a flower long-delayed by the frost, he was glad of it. Confident as Maedhros's actions might be, his mind was a shuddering mixture of desire and fear, second-guesses and self-loathing. Fingon hummed in reassurance, opening his own mind in return without heed for how dangerous it might be. Maedhros gasped, hands coming up to cling to his shoulders as he thrust into Fingon's hand. "More," he breathed, his voice shaded with lust and panic. "You need to go further -"

So Fingon pushed him further into abandon, mouthing his neck until red marks blossomed across his skin, pushing him down against the ground and thrusting his own cock against Maedhros's, wetting them with his own spit for the lack of anything else. Maedhros gasped, glass-eyed with pleasure, and reached up and gathered handfuls of Fingon's braids to drag him back down, their minds entwining like a mingled explosion of sparks.

He dug through shadows, memories so bleak they made his heart ache, muddy trails of Morgoth's will dragging through and about Maedhros's mind. He could not heal them - it was not his place to - but he gave as much as he could of his own strength, let Maedhros's thoughts lean on him like a wounded man on a crutch, silently offering his aid. Maedhros gave a soft, dry sob and clung to him tighter as Fingon sought deeper still in his mind.

At the deepest level, there were no words - only sensation, physical and mental mingling. The warm, sweetly painful ache of brushing against the innermost depths of Maedhros's thoughts. The tightening of the muscles of Maedhros's thighs as he began to come; the answering heat, gathering in his loins and cock, as he followed soon after. And the relief, the bliss stronger than orgasm, as they touched the very foundations of their minds and Fingon found Maedhros's clean. Dark, but it was his own darkness. Morgoth had not penetrated so far.

Afterward, they clung to each other, so weak that Fingon almost forgot for a moment which one of them had more reason to be. Some time passed, simply lying skin to skin, letting their thoughts separate naturally, communicating in more than words. Maedhros was smiling again; wanly, but it was like honey to Fingon's heart.

"Will the others believe you?" he finally asked, aloud.

Fingon kissed his cheek. "That is moot. None need to know but you and me." It really will be better that way, he added silently.

Maedhros thought about it, then nodded slowly. He sat up, smiling a little at Fingon's noise of protest, and looked with wonder at the encircling mountains - and the path that led out. Fingon caught the edge of his thoughts; what had seemed hopeless and insurmountable now seemed so much more possible.

"We shall have to do something about my hand," he said slowly. "It is not usable without the machine Sauron affixed to it, and his work is far too easy to recognize." His lip curled. "Beside, I do not wish to keep anything he fashioned."

Fingon sat up as well and wrapped his arms around Maedhros's shoulders, resting his chin on one. "Yes," he said, "but we can decide it after we leave here."

"After we leave," Maedhros said, his voice wondering. "Yes."


End file.
